The Night Series
by Alpacca Joe
Summary: An unofficial series, oneshots that share one major theme: it all happens at night.
1. Night Terrors: Daria

**Alpacca bites**: Just a little something that popped into my deranged noggin while I was washing an endless supply of dishes. Blame the detergent's sweet, bubbly, lemony goodness. It smelled too good not to give it a sip.

Night Terrors: Daria

_Pull the Plug_

The thick, round black glasses slipped down the brunette's slim nose as she studied her boots. Shy excitement rouged pale cheeks as she chanced a furtive glance at the object of her apprehension and a guilty thrill went through her when he caught her eyes. He smiled in his lazy way and leaned as close as his position would allow; his warm, spicy scent wafted over her in a way that almost seemed calculated to drive her to distraction.

"C'mon, Daria," Trent Lane cajoled gently as he took her hand, once again using his influence over the younger girl in an attempt, he thought, to convince her to engage in a much-needed act of rebellion. "You only live once." Just as he planned, the unexpected contact had the desired affect and Daria gave a tiny nod. Under Trent's expert tutelage, the reserved Miss Morgendorffer managed to climb aboard the 1988 Harley Davidson without incident. Before she could begin to grapple with the concept of gripping Trent's waist, when the mere thought of touching him in even the most innocent way petrified her, Trent was pressing something smooth and hard into her small, nervous hands.

"You should get the helmet." She stared. "Cuz, you know, you're a girl and everything." Daria gave one of her rare smiles and slipped the scuffed black helmet over her hair.

"A true gentleman." she quipped playfully and Trent's chuckle was lost as he stomped down on the throttle and the Harley roared to life. Daria barely had time to throw her arms around her best friend's brother's abdomen before they were shooting down the street, thick blue smoke trailing behind them like an ethereal tail.

As the pair raced down crowded streets and then over the highway with reckless abandon, Daria was shocked to find she was enjoying herself. The feel of the wind on her face, they way it blew her hair out behind her and pulled at her skirt, the hum of the machine beneath her... it was all very freeing. As they rode, all of the high schooler's troubles seemed to slip away. A blush infused the creamy color of the girl's skin as she admitted to herself that the warm, firm feel of the man in front of her and the scent which drifted back to her from their close proximity had a large hand in her unaccustomed langour, and was in fact the true cause of her enjoyment. And although that admission brought with it a great flood of anxiety and embarrassment, she for once did not allow it to overpower the simple pleasure she felt in being close to him.

Trent's smile was the vision of utter contentment as he piloted his borrowed black rocket for two across the cracked blacktop. The horizon was a perfect line stretching to infinity to either side beneath a flawless azure sky and the wind was dry and crisp as only on a summer afternoon. And nothing made a good experience a great experience like the feel of a girl pressed against you. A quick glance over his thin shoulder and Trent's smile grew. Daria's eyes were bright, vivid brown behind the thick lenses of her glasses and her face was flushed with a mixture of wind burn and excitement. A small smile stretched her full lips and a curious shiver tickled the musician's spine as he felt Daria's chest heave against him in her elated laughter.

Twenty minutes later the duo had turned back in the direction of town, to their shared sorrow. Trent had eased their frantic speed to an easy sixty miles per hour in his reluctance to surrender their impromptu excursion to the past. Despite his best, most practiced efforts of procrastination Lawndale was soon in their sights and in the span of a matter of minutes, the despondent pair were once again within the oppressive confinement of civilization.

The truck came out of nowhere.

One moment the intersection was clear, the next a blue pickup was roaring and swerving straight toward them. Trent managed to get out of the way before the truck could hit them, but he overbalanced in the process and as the crunch of metal on metal screamed from behind them, Trent and Daria crashed to the ground and everything went black.

Daria opened her eyes on a bizarre scene: She lay in a hospital bed, tubes and wires leading from her bruised and bandaged body to a multitude of beeping, blipping, buzzing machines which stood sentinel around her unconscious form in the otherwise empty room. A heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm to the right and it was obvious that she was on life support. An oxygen mask hid her face, but Daria could still see the friction burns peeking out from under the plastic and tape from her vantage point above herself, seemingly stuck to the ceiling of the hospital room. Before she could begin to contemplate her dual position, the door creaked open.

Quinn Morgendorffer crept quietly into the room and eased the door closed behind her, as though mindful of her sister's slumber and unwilling to wake her. When satisfied they were alone, Quinn slowly turned and strode to Daria's bedside. For several long minutes the younger Morgendorffer seemed to consider her sister, to study her closely for her eyes never left the still form. Then Quinn moved up by Daria's head and gazed straight down into her face; her eyes were completely void of emotion as she spoke. Five words slipped from 'tween those pouty pink lips, and Daria's heart turned to ice.

"Suppose I should say goodbye."

And with one smooth, savage motion Quinn pulled the plug. The shrill flatline of the heart monitor was Daria's only scream.

Daria bolted upright with a horrified gasp and was immediately aware of three things: a dull, thudding ache behind her eyes, a sharp pain in her arm and a rapid, rhythmic beeping to her left. A quick inspection found a thick bandage wrapped around disheveled hair, cognitive of a head injury. An IV was plugged into Daria's thin right arm, and a heart monitor amplified her triphammer heartbeat to the other side of the stiff hospital bed on which she sat. A jumble of images tumbled through her normally coordinated mind, and the bewildered writer could make heads nor tails of any one memory, thought, whatever they were. Save one.

Quinn's words and the action which accompanied them stood stark in Daria's mind. The knowledge that it had been a mere dream did nothing to comfort her; Quinn's actions had seemed all too natural, her words far too real.

The door burst open and Helen Morgendorffer rushed to her daughter's side, face slicked with mascara and tears. For a moment it seemed she was going to crush Daria to herself in an intense embrace, but she caught herself at the last second and clasped Daria's hand in stead. She was soon forced to relinquish her hold as a man in a white coat made his way to Daria's bedside. She soon recognized him as the doctor who had treated her the last time she was here; when she tried to recall his name, the dull ache behind her eyes spiked to a sharp pain and she soon gave up the ghost.

Daria sat patiently as her pupils were checked, then tested with a small pen light. The doctor scribbled something on the chart which had been hanging from the bar at the foot of the bed, and Daria surprised herself by speaking.

"What am I doing here?" The words had barely died on her lips before a veritable stampede rushed from the hall and crashed into the room, each with the intention to be first to Daria's side. Jake Morgendorffer, the siblings Lane, Jesse Moreno and lastly, the petite Quinn managed to squirt into the room simultaneously just as the doctor made his reply.

"There was an accident, Daria. Nothing serious, but you did sustain a mild concussion. You've got a couple bumps and bruises, nothing to worry about, but you have been unconscious for the past four and a half hours."

Jesse and Trent stood by the door, the latter's face a mask of absolute misery. A gash marred the flesh of his forehead and ran into the hair at his right temple, the blood clotted but the wound obviously untreated. A few bruises and one friction burn were scattered here and there across his arms and face and suddenly, some of the images assembled themselves into a chain of events in Daria's mind. Her eyes widened in understanding and recollection.

"What about the driver? In the truck? Is he alive?"

The doctor nodded, his handsome features twisted into an expression of disgust.

"He'll live." was his terse reply.

Jane smiled at her best friend and partner-in-crime from her place beside her brother, the helmet that saved Daria's life cradled in her hands. As Jake moved to sit at his daughter's side, curiously calm, Jane went on to inform Daria of her plan to turn the helmet into a sculpture using pieces of the broken asphalt and telephone pole from the accident, something about Daria's "triumphant return from the afterlife." Jesse, the owner of the Harley Trent had been piloting when the drunken road hazard had come careening out of nowhere, had been informed of the accident by Jane when he showed up for practice only to find Trent still missing. His concern, while appreciated, was the farthest thing from Daria's mind.

Quinn had taken a chair at the opposite end of the room, directly across from Daria's bed. Her skin's awful pallor and the obvious puffiness of her face were indicative of crying, but it was her eyes that turned the elder Morgendorffer's soul to lead. There was something there, a flash in those bloodshot orbs that sent tremors through Daria's body and both Jake and Helen's eyes widened in alarm as the heart monitor again began to race as Daria's hands shook. A small smile lifted Quinn's lips, the same bubble gum pink of her sweater, but her eyes were unreadable. Her lips parted to reveal her perfect, straight teeth as she mouthed something Daria couldn't quite make out. Quinn's smile widened.

"If you should die before you wake."

It took everything Daria had not to scream.

---------------

Which is reality, which is nightmare? You decide.

11/16/07


	2. When Night Falls: Jake

**Alpacca bites**: Yet another spur-of-the-moment, detergent-induced write. Enjoy. I command thee! O.e

When Night Falls: Jake

_The Cell_

Jake lay there in the dark, eyes long since adjusted to the gloom and stared dispassionately at the ceiling above. He didn't have to check to know the bed beside him was cold. From the direction of their shared bathroom he heard it: Helen cooing into that goddam phone of hers, simpering in her most flirtatious and subservient tone. Oh, Eric, of course! Why, Eric, that's sooo interesting, Eric this, Eric that, Eric Eric Eric! A telling throb started behind Jake's eyes and he forced himself to calm down.

A high pitched giggle drifted back into the cold bedroom and Jake heaved a heavy sigh. When was the last time he had made her laugh like that? It seemed like decades ago, now, since they'd been happy. And every time Helen dragged him to one of her "company parties," it was thrown into ever starker relief; his discomfort, lame jokes and heavy drinking while she spent the entire night with... him. Talking to him. Chasing after him. Catering to HIM. Jake's eyes narrowed as he recalled that first party, back when they had first moved to this suburban cesspool. That had been the first time he'd met Eric. Jake had hated him from the start.

It had been a luncheon to honor their newest employee, or so they had said. If Jake were to be asked, he would have said it was just an excuse to drink in the middle of the day. He would not have been wrong. Jake had been making his rounds of the buffet table when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something he didn't like. A man was standing indecently close to Helen with a hand resting on the small of her back. As Jake watched the man leaned closer and closer to his wife. It brung Jake's already dangerously high blood pressure to the boiling point. Lunch forgotten, he stalked across the room in anticipation of breaking the smug son of a bitch's jaw.

Jake saw Helen look around just as he came within earshot. When she saw the expression on his face she took a step back from her overattentive boss and shot Jake her best smile. He was not convinced.

"Jake, there you are!" She took his hand and latched onto his arm; the less reason she gave him to blow his top, the better. "Jake, this is Eric Schrecter. He gave me the job here at Vitale, Davis, Horowitz, Riordan, Schrecter, Schrecter, and Schrecter. Eric, this is my husband, Jake." Jake grudgingly shook his hand; he had to restrain the urge to wipe his palm clean afterward.

The mindless drivel that passed for polite conversation was lost on Jake as he glared bloody murder at his wife's new employer. Eric made some asinine crack about Helen being a shark or some other such idiocy and Helen laughed as though it were the funniest thing she had ever heard; Jake closely watched the delicate tango being danced between his wife and this... man and his suspicions grew. Whether Helen knew about it or not, Eric wanted her. And from the looks of it, he would go to any lengths to get her.

From that day on, Jake began noting and filing away every missed dinner, every late night, every single phone call from that rat bastard that intruded on their increasingly rare time as a couple. His newly discovered resentment for his wife grew every time Helen declared herself too tired to talk to Jake about her day, but more than perky enough to take a call from her wonderful boss at two AM on a weekday.

Then, the sermons made an appearance. Helen called them "workshops," but in reality they were no more than a last-ditch effort to forestall divorce. They would spend two or so hours in an auditorium with a few hundred other couples, listen to some quack drone on about the "marital ABC's" and the importance of understanding that "there's no 'you' in 'togetherness'" followed by two days of animalistic sex and when they finally got home, nothing would have changed. So Jake feigned cluelessness and pretended not to notice when he woke in the middle of the night to find that Helen wasn't there.

Jake turned on his side and closed his eyes tiredly. He hated to think about that first time. Of all the things that could have happened, the one thing he would never have expected... Jake clenched his teeth and struck the mattress with a closed fist. Despite his most fervent struggle, the events of The First Night managed to slip from the vault and into Jake's anguished mind.

It was late, maybe four in the morning when Jake woke to find Helen's side of the bed empty and cold. He had figured her to be in the bathroom and meandered down to the kitchen for a late night snack. Whilst perusing the fridge, the sound of a car pulling up at the front of the house had broken through Jake's sleep haze. He closed the refrigerator door and frowned. There had been no headlights, so at first he thought himself mistaken. Then the front door had opened and Helen slipped inside, admonishing someone in hushed tones. Just the sight of her froze Jake's heart: smeared lipstick, mussed hair, her slip showing beneath her skirt, heels in hand. Jake knew what it all meant, just the same as the words that had drifted through the door when it had been cracked open, "Eric, no!"

Helen's eyes were wide as saucers for the second she had managed to look at him. Then they found her toes and she tried a muttered excuse of 'late meeting' before Jake grabbed his keys off the counter and brushed past her out the door.

After that, they pretended everything was alright. Jake went to the "workshops" on the weekends, the couples retreats when the girls had a school trip or spent the night with friends. He pretended not to notice when she whispered into that damn phone about him being out of town on a certain date and made sure to act as though nothing had changed around their friends. Two years after moving to Lawndale, Jake was able to sense in his sleep when Helen's side of the bed was empty.

His melancholic reverie was interrupted by Helen's voice; it was closer now and curiously urgent. Jake tried to block out the sickening sound and pushed his face deeper into the pillow, but it was a futile attempt.

"Eric, I already told you, I can't--" A pause. "I understand that, but he won't be--" A frustrated huff. "I KNOW, but I can't get away until next Friday. He won't be out of town until then, and I have--" A sigh, her voice considerably gentler when she continued. "Of course I do, Eric, but it's getting harder to get away and I don't want..." A gasp. "Eric, no! I can't say... not... he could hear..." Helen's voice retreated back into the bathroom so, mercifully, Jake could no longer discern her words from the wind blowing outside the window.

It was getting harder every day, it was true. The girls were starting to notice their parents' emotional distance and Helen was doing her damndest to keep them in the dark. And although he had fallen into the routine of pretending, the one thing he couldn't seem to keep up was pretending he still loved her.

Helen emerged from the bathroom and crept into her place on the large mattress. A few minutes later, her breath was deep and rhythmic. She was asleep. Under cover of darkness, Jake Morgendorffer opened his eyes to the treacherous night and very silently began to cry.

The last words Jake had heard Helen speak had been "I love you, too."

---------------

They say being married always gets harder at night.


	3. Silent Night: Jake and Helen

**Alpacca bites**: I don't usually do holiday-inspired fics, but this one just wouldn't go away! Don't really know what brought it on, it might've been the snow we've had here in New York recently, it might've been the marathon holiday decorating I had to do a couple days ago. Either way, here's one for the season. Enjoy. 12/4/07

Silent Night: Helen and Jake

_Snow Fall_

Jake Morgendorffer sighed and sipped from his mug. It was a contented sigh, though one tinged with just the smallest sadness; in just a few months Daria would be graduating from Lawndale High and be off to college, and Quinn would (god willing) be following in short order. In a way, this would be their last Christmas as a family... and as proud of his daughter as Jake was, he did not want her to go. Christmas music played softly in the background as through the large picture window to his left, Jake noticed heavy clouds roll over the moon.

"Jakey?"

Jake was shaken from his bittersweet reverie by his wife's gentle voice. Helen's high brow was creased in concern to find her husband sitting up at this late hour, staring moodily at their tastefully decorated Christmas tree and sighing deeply. The livingroom was dark but for the tree lights, which made it hard for Helen to read her husband's expression. A few seconds passed without a reply and, her concern growing, Helen's lips parted with every intention of again posing her query.

"You think we did good, Helen?"

The question, it was unnecessary to say, took her by surprise. Jake swirled the dark contents of his mug and Helen was surprised to be hit by the rich scent of chocolate. A gentle smile lifted full lips as she lay soft hands on Jake's strong shoulders and kneaded gently.

"Well, Jake, that all depends on what you're asking. If you're asking about our life, well, we're not saving the world like we hoped to be doing when we were in college, but I think we've done well for ourselves. We live in a good town in a fine home. We're healthy and, despite some rough patches now and then, I'd say we're happy. What more could you ask for?" Jake was silent so Helen lowered herself to his lap and continued. "Now, Christmas has gone very well, in my opinion. We managed to get the girls everything they asked for, within reason, we don't have to attend any tacky office Christmas parties and we'll be able to celebrate the holiday as a family." She leaned down and kissed her husband warmly on the temple. "All in all, Jakey, I'd say we've done very well for ourselves."

There was another moment's silence as Jake mulled over Helen's reply and absently wrapped an arm around her waist.

"What about the girls?" Helen blinked. "Daria's going to be leaving for college soon. Ever since we moved here, she's had her mind set on getting as far away from Lawndale as possible. What if it's more than that? What if we're the real reason she wants to leave?" The desperate pleading in Jake's voice tore at Helen's heart and she unconsciously held him tighter. After a second she blinked the tears from her eyes and turned Jake's face to hers.

"Ever since they were little we've been telling the girls they could be whatever they wanted and they should never be satisfied with mediocrity. Daria is too stubborn, too independent and far too intelligent to settle for anything like a state school-- and that's a good thing, Jakey. She wants a challenge." She smiled lovingly down into Jake's deep brown eyes and lay a hand tenderly on his cheek. "Our girls have their faults, but they're good girls. Quinn may be a bit self-absorbed, but she's driven and every bit as intelligent as Daria is, even if she's not willing to show it. And as sarcastic and cynical as Daria may be, she has a good head on her shoulders. We've raised two intelligent, beautiful, unique young women, Jake Morgendorffer. What reason do we have to be anything but proud?"

Jake smiled gratefully up into his wife's beautiful face and pulled her down for a kiss. A heavy moment passed and their eyes were drawn to the window. Helen leaned down to rest her cheek on the top of Jake's head as her eyes gleamed.

"It's snowing." Jake murmured wonderingly and held his wife tighter.

Upstairs in their respective rooms, Daria and Quinn Morgendorffer slept peacefully, minds adrift in star-strewn tides and filled with the childlike excitement they had not admitted to in nearly a decade. In the livingroom of 1111 Glen Oaks Lane, two lovers sat lost in the silent night, willing witnesses to the small miracle that is snowfall.

---------------

Happy holidays, everyone.


	4. In The Heat of The Night: Brittany

**Alpacca bites**: Figured since I've been neglecting Winter Hearts (writer's block, what can you do?) I'd add this little tid bit-- it's just gonna be a short one, though. And not all that great, either--I wrote this utterly wiped, with a migraine the size of Montanna. I was gonna overhaul, but I just felt too horrible. Blame my job. I did.

In The Heat of The Night: Brittany  
_Regrets_

Soft giggles drifted through the lowered Jeep windows and into the darkness of the surrounding woods. Through the hushed sounds of passion came two discernable words, "Oh, Kevy!"

And thus was a romance born.

---------------

Kevin smiled hopefully as they stood in the Lawndale High parking lot on that hot June day and asked tentatively, "You'll still be my babe, right?"

Brittany forced a smile. "Sure!"

And they kissed there under the sun on that day, Graduation looming before them, fully aware that their eternal love had reached its expiration date.

---------------

The clock ticked maddingly on the beige waiting room wall, second by second counting down the moments until their fate would be decided. Brittany Taylor tapped a pink manicured nail nervously on the leg of her faded blue jeans. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail and threaded through the White Sox cap pulled down low over her eyes. Said eyes twitched nervously back and forth between the clock and the door behind the reception desk, chuck-clad foot tapping with the urge to flee.

She had turned nineteen this past year and returned to Lawndale for summer break. Despite her intentions, seeing her old high school sweetheart Kevin Thompson had rekindled a flame Brittany had thought long since doused. One thing had led to another, neither prepared for the familiar circumstances they found themselves in... and their passionate spontaneity, or "youthful indiscretion" as some are fond of calling it, had landed Brittany here, sitting in a shabby chair in a women's clinic on the edge of town.

The ticking was driving her insane; when the second hand seemed to begin counting backwards as she watched, Brittany decided it was time to divert her attention to something else. Under cover of shadow, her eyes roved over the other inhabitants of the dingy waiting room. One woman, brown-haired and bored looking in an expensive suit, leafed through a dog-eared magazine. The seats on either side of her were empty; she was here alone.

A few feet away sat a redhead, a teenager with anxious eyes and a pale, pinched quality about her face. She, too played the nervous game of tag with the wall clock and seemed to be faring no better than Brittany herself had.

At the front of the room near the reception desk sat a brunette dressed all in black, a silver stud in her small nose. Beside her sat a bored-looking man in his twenties, sandy hair falling over his eyes in a calculated tumble. Before Brittany's eyes could move on to the next specimen they were caught by the brunette's. At first Brittany felt guilty, though she didn't know why, but then the older woman gave a reassuring smile which seemed to say, "Relax, it's no big deal. I've been though this a thousand times."

The blonde's return smile was watery and a bit tremulous, but she did take some small comfort in the brunette's effort.

Finally, the nurse entered the room and called Brittany's name. With a deep, bracing breath she walked back into the examination room and faced the doctor. Clipboard in hand, the solemn man broke the news as gently as possible.

Several seconds passed in wide-eyed silence. With a hitching breath, Brittany laid her head in her hands and cried.

---------------

After a long pause, it finally hit him. Brittany wasn't surprised, of course; if anything, she would have expected it to take another hour for the information to drill through the bomb shelter that was Kevin's skull and locate the mustard seed-sized brain. But the realization came, and the goofy smile lit that vacant face. Kevin took Brittany's small hand in his own, still clad in the fingerless glove worn as part of his football uniform (though he had finally graduated, he still wore the uniform) and got down to one knee before her.

"Babe!" he exclaimed excitedly. Then, in a coy manner that turned the blonde's stomach, "Or should I say Mrs. Babe?"

From within the house, Brittany heard Mrs. Thompson give a despaired wail that tapered off into deep, anguished sobs. That was nothing compared to what the intended bride was feeling, Brittany thought with a bitter glare in the direction of the back porch. One petite hand fell to her abdomen as her eyes closed.

I'm going to be a three month pregnant college drop out, married to Lawndale's Village Idiot and all because he couldn't take ten freakin minutes to stop at Drugs and Stuff to buy a box of condoms.

Kevin ran into the house to tell his parents the good news, and Brittany's first bout of morning sickness hit her as the bottom dropped out of her world.

---------------

"Britt, honey? It's time." Ashley Amber smiled vacantly at her step daughter and adjusted the veil atop the elaborate mass of curls which cascaded down Brittany's back. The soon-to-be-former Miss Taylor's usually cheery eyes were dull, her face blank and lifeless beneath the light layer of makeup she wore. In the mirror before her, she stared at her reflection, wrapped in lace and satin and pearls. A small crease appeared between pencil-thin brows as her full bottom lip puckered in a frown. She would have killed herself then and there if it wasn't for the baby.

Just beyond the oak double doors, the wedding march was struck up by a fifteen piece orchestra and Brittany stood. The entire ceremony passed in a blur; she had no memory of actually walking down the isle, saying her vows nor throwing the bouquet. Time flowed like water, hours passing as seconds and soon it was over.

No honeymoon awaited them; the limo brought them back to the Thompson household where Brittany spent her wedding night curled on the bathroom floor, fighting nausea and crying bitter tears.

---------------

No one voice was discernable from the others, the delivery room filled with a cyclone of mechanical beeps and incoherent blather. All Brittany knew was the pain.

"Keep pushing!" the doctor urged from her feet, holding most of a screaming newborn in his capable hands. "We've almost got him!"

"Yeah, babe!" Kevin beamed at his wife, that idiot grin splitting his face in the most infuriating way. "Push him out, push him out, waaayyyy out!"

Brittany's grimacing face whipped around to face her husband as one clawed hand grasped the front of his scrub shirt and pulled him as close to her as possible.

"I HATE you!" she gritted in a voice hoarse from screaming. "You RUINED my LIFE, you block-headed idiot! **I HATE YOU!**"

Kevin laughed it off. After all, women always said crazy things when they were pregnant. His father had told him some of the things his mother used to say when she was pregnant, and this was nothing compared to that.

Finally, with one last push the long, arduous process was over and Brittany held her baby in her arms for the first time. He had hair as blonde as hers with eyes the color of emeralds. Tears came to the exhausted girl's eyes as she studied him and said a prayer of thanks that he looked nothing like his father.

A voice broke through the well-deserved doze Brittany found herself falling into, and she blinked awake at the words coming, inexplicably, from beneath the blanket at her chest.

"You do realize that the easy part is over, don't you?"

Blue eyes grew wide as they stared at the face of the newborn cradled to Brittany Thompson's chest, and recognized it as Daria Morgendorffer, glasses and all. One of those well exercised eyebrows quirked, expression predictably bland as the baby awaited a reply.

And Brittany screamed.

---------------

Sweat ran down her face in rivulets, breath ragged and labored as tremors wracked her lithe form. Brittany's hands patted her stomach, face, arms, searching in the dark for any reassurance that it had, in fact, all been a horrible dream. Finally her horrified eyes found the alarm clock on the night table, the soft green numbers displaying both the date and time. It was May, still a month before the end of term. She was still at school, laying in the narrow bed of her tiny dorm room. Nowhere near Lawndale, Kevin Thompson or his jeep. Safe.

With a heavy sigh, both of relief and regret, Brittany rummaged on the bedside table until her hand came in contact with her tiny blue Samsung cell phone. A press of a button later and her ear was met with the incoherent grumbling of a confused Quarter Back, thousands of miles away.

"Kevin? We need to talk."

---------------

I'd get freaked out if MY baby suddenly sprouted Daria's face and started talking to me. Wouldn't you? Don't lie, you know you would.


	5. Night and Day: Sandi

**Night And Day****: Sandi**  
_Waking Dreams_  
-or-  
_In Death's Despite_

--  
_I have been here before,  
But when or how I cannot tell:  
I know the grass beyond the door,  
The sweet keen smell,  
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore._

Sandi Griffin awoke with a sense of deja vu on the morning of May 12, 1997. It filled her with an unease that nearly caused her to be unfashionably tardy, but she managed to finish her shower on time and dressed in her usual overalls and ankle boots in enough time to get a ride with her father before he left for work. She spent the entire drive in a fog, a half-remembered dream playing behind her troubled hazel eyes. She tried to make sense of it, but this was one thing no amount of reasoning could possibly explain.

Sandi remembered one thing in particular which set this dream apart from every other she had had since; while there had, as usual, been a guy in this dream (dark haired, tall, well dressed and good-looking), the axis of that dreamed reality titled upon one very important fact. That guy had been her.

In the dream, Sandi, who remembered being addressed as Alexander (and hadn't that made her laugh) was on his way to call on someone. He had been wearing a dark suit with tails, finely tailored and of an expensive material, an emerald green cravat that felt and looked like silk and walked with a cane. His hair had been nearly as long as he (_she_, Sandi reminded herself, taken aback) wore it now, pulled back with a ribbon and as he passed a shop window (it looked like an antique shop, she thought now, with its display of wash basins and pitchers, silver-framed mirrors and other, less easily recognizable things), Sandi noted that his eyes were the same rich hazel, his hair as luminous as it had ever been. He had a strong chin, like his father's, and a gold stick-pin in his cravat flaunting a rather large pearl. But the most extraordinary thing had to be his expression.

The anticipation rolled off of his well-dressed frame in waves, eyes shone and twinkled like stars and his smile was wide and radiant. Unlike the present Alexandra Ray Griffin of Lawndale, Alexander was truly and gloriously happy. This revelation pulled Sandi ever deeper into her bog of despair; to be happy in a dream, yet miserable in reality. Truly, a most unkind irony.

Alexander turned from his beaming reflection after making a last adjustment to his hat and once again set off down the cobbled street, boot heels tapping with purpose. He had soon left the bustling market district behind and passed rows of well kept houses on either side of him. Horse-drawn carriages chattered by on the street and everywhere was the scent of spring.

A quarter mile down, Alexander turned in at a three-story house and, without bothering to call at the front door, moved around to the back garden. He called out happily to a young woman standing near a blackberry bush, face hidden by the elaborately embroidered bonnet she wore. At Alexander's voice, she hefted the berry-laden basket on her arm and began to turn with a musical twinkle of delighted laughter.

_Alexan-_

"-di. Sandi!"

Sandi jerked her forehead from its resting position against the passanger window of her father's Mercedes and turned to him with startled eyes.

"Huh?" she croaked, the picture of eloquence as she stared goggle-eyed at Tom Griffin, who sat backlit by morning sunlight with a small, gentle smile on his handsome face.

"We're here, princess. Did you need any money or anything?"

"Oh." Sandi rubbed her eyes, trying to shake the last vestiges of the disturbingly real dream from her shoulders. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

Her father's kiss still warm on her forehead, Sandi stuffed the twenty into her overall pocket and strode toward the small circle of kids behind the high school sign. She decided just not to think about Alexander or the girl he always went to see; so what if she'd had that same dream six times since April? It didn't behoove the President of the Lawndale High Fashion Club to dwell upon such things. Stacy Rowe greeted her enthusiastically as always, but before they could really get into any deep discussion about the most current fashion faux pas exhibited by the student body, a dark blue Lexus pulled into the circular drive not ten feet away.

From the passenger door stepped a vision in pink. She was tall and lean in a pair of flared blue jeans and a cute smiley-face shirt, a mane of the reddest hair rioting down her back in a bouncy waterfall. Their eyes met and Sandi's heart stopped.

--  
_You have been mine before,–  
How long ago I may not know:  
But when at that swallow's soar  
Your neck turned so,  
Some veil did fall,-- I know it all of yore._

_Alexander! She cries, eyes sparkling like the summer sea as she snatches off her bonnet to let her hair fall free. It catches the sun and for a moment glows like embers, then she is running and before I know it, my arms wind around her, catching her as she leaps into me, arms cinching tight around my neck. Zan! And she's laughing into my throat, warm breath tickling like feathers._

Alessa! And I'm laughing too, laughing so hard and smiling down into those eyes. I could drown in those eyes. She's looking at me that way again, gazing up at me with that mischievous smile, the smile that would distract the Devil himself. Caught in that turquoise gaze, arrested by her peony perfume and those berry-kissed lips, no man could ever look away, all any man could know, all I know is her name, that beautiful name--

"Quinn Morgendorffer." Stacy was smiling widely at the new girl, Quinn, and Sandi found herself doing the same, though, she suspected, for a very different reason.

"Cool name."

They chatted about nothing for a while, then the bell sounded through the in-set speakers at either side of the main doors, and the small congregation of students began filing inside. As they strolled along, Sandi took advantage of the slight lead she and Quinn had over the rest of the group to ask a question that had been bothering her since Quinn introduced herself several minutes before.

"So, Quinn. Do you have a middle name?"

Quinn snuck a glance at Sandi, that maddening little smile pulling at her pink lips.

"Actually, I have two. Quinn Alessa Ann Morgendorffer. My mom couldn't decide between Alessa and Ann, so she was all like, why choose? Parents, you know?" Alessa. A chill tickled Sandi's spine, an echo too strong to be called deja vu ringing all around her. Quinn glanced sidelong at her new friend. "So your name's Alexandra, right? Do you have any nicknames? I knew a girl named Alexandra back in Highland, everyone called her Lexi."

"What?" Sandi gave herself a good mental shake, forced herself to focus. Focus! If she had any intention of having a relationship with this girl, she had to make the effort now, while she had the chance. "Actually, everyone calls me Sandi."

"Sandi." That smile grew just the tiniest bit, and Quinn turned her turquoise gaze to catch Sandi's unsuspecting hazel. "If it was up to me, I'd call you Zan." Sandi froze in her tracks, Quinn barely six inches away. Their eyes locked, the redhead leaned in until their noses nearly touched, so close they shared breath. "What do you think?"

Sandi blinked, and they were in the garden again, wrapped in each other's arms as the world rolled on around them, blissfully forgotten. A split second later, they were in Lawndale again, and for the first time in her life, Sandi felt everything was finally in its place.  
"You know, the Fashion Club needs a Vice President." Sandi smirked and turned her head just-so; in the empty corridor, there was no one but the walls to bear witness to the brief brush of lips; the girls knew they would keep the secret.

The pair entwined fingers and continued walking. They remained that way until a fork separated them, Sandi for class and Quinn to the tour late-transfers were forced to endure. Once more their eyes met, both aware of the dual reality surrounding only them two, just as it should be.

--  
_Has this been thus before?  
And shall not thus time's eddying flight  
Still with our lives our love restore  
In death's despite,  
And day and night yield one delight once more?_

"Sudden light" by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.


	6. This Night Is For Dreamers: Jane

**This Night Is For Dreamers****: Jane**  
_Curtain Call_

She had never much been into theater. Sure, she had done her time in school plays from elementary through middle school, mostly in props or designing sets -- after all, an artist's calling is to create. Then came her last year in middle school and the auditions for the lead rolls in the upcoming end-of-year production of West Side Story. She had remembered watching the movie with her father, he going on about the camera angles and cinematography while she, only a small girl of six or seven, was taken in by the music and dancing-- the things people watch musicals to enjoy. Though it was one of the only memories she had of being with her father, what stayed in her mind was watching Anita whirl across that rooftop in her mauve party dress. That image almost seemed to haunt her and she signed her name on the Auditions register as in a trance.

It was coming on four-thirty a week later and auditions were in full swing. The auditorium was nearly half full and at the front right beneath the stage was a cafeteria lunch table covered in scripts, legal pads and post-it notes. Ms. King, the dance teacher and head of the Drama club sat at the far left, red hair twisted behind her head and held in place with a large claw clip shaped like a black widow spider. Silver-framed bifocals were perched at the very end of her nose as she glared distastefully at the girl on stage. With a put-upon sigh, Ms. King allowed her glasses to drop so they lay against the front of her black turtleneck sweater and pinched the bridge of her long, sharp nose.

"Next." she called without preamble and the girl, right in the middle of belting out _Tonight_, fell silent as abruptly as though someone had switched off a radio. Mr. Doug, English teacher and Director of the play frowned briefly before consulting his clipboard. He crossed out a name before going down to the next line.

"Jane Lane reading for Anita."

Fourteen year old Jane Lane, confident as ever she was, strode out to center stage and began to sing. She got roughly halfway through _America_ when something happened that wiped the smile right off of Mr. Doug's handsome face.

"I knew I should have limited the leads to the Drama Club."

With growing disdain she waved Jane off the stage, but the girl was not to be moved. Blue eyes ablaze, she put everything into the remainder of the song and when it was done, threw her script down at Ms. King's feet and walked off to thunderous applause.

Jane never sang again after that. The theater was dead to her and for the rest of her scholastic career Jane painted, sculpted, photographed and sketched, content to fade into the background. And so she had. Jane had been so dedicated to this course of action as not to make a single friend.

Then Daria came.

Daria Morgendorffer had changed everything. Ever since Daria moved to Lawndale, Jane had been happy. She laughed, smiled and joked-- she came alive again. And most remarkable of all, she dreamed of singing. It was during that big hurricane, when the school had to be evacuated and Jane had called Trent to pick up her and Daria. Unfortunately, Trent's car had broken down just a few blocks away from the Morgendorffer house, so the three of them had holed up there, drinking Quinn's cocoa as they waited for the storm to pass. Jane had fallen asleep in front of the T.V. and dreamed that as the hurricane raged, the whole of Lawndale spontaneously burst into song and dance. Daria had found it amusing later and when she had asked to hear a few of the songs, Jane obliged-- but used a false voice that would put a scalded cat to shame. Even after so long, she could not bring herself to go back. And so it had been through all of high school. Now it was a week until graduation, she was very likely headed to a good college in the same town as her best friend and Jane felt more free than ever she had in her life before. Which was what brought her to Lawndale High in the dark of night. The day before had been the last day of classes for the seniors, and Jane had run into the day custodian, Pavlov, while cleaning out her locker. A little well-placed flirting was more than enough for him to drop his guard and with some luck and not an inconsiderable amount of skill, Jane had managed to lift his keys as well as the night custodian, Schrodinger's, pass codes. Escape was a simple matter of leaving with the excuse of a late night run and twenty minutes later, she keyed in the curious password (Octavius) and stepped inside.

The auditorium was pitch black and after a brief struggle with the overflowing ring, Jane found the key to the power box and threw a random switch. A single spot above the stage threw the room into stark relief and with an expression of mixed apprehension and excitement, Jane made her way backstage. She drew in deep breaths as she moved toward center stage and marveled in the knowledge that no matter where you go, all stages smell the same. A small smile touched her lips at the memory of Mr. Doug grinning like a loon as he watched her sing and wondered suddenly, what would he have done if she had been allowed to dance? Jane's eyes closed as the music filled her; one foot tapped out the rhythm and silently she counted: one, two, three, four.

All at once, Jane was Rita Moreno dancing across a faux Manhattan rooftop. She kicked, spun, jumped, stomped and twirled across the stage and never once missed a step. Sweat flew from her brow and her breath came in tight, controlled gasps that echoed through the abandoned building to be absorbed by the darkness. Finally she ended up once again at center stage and her bright blue eyes opened as she brought a hand up and clenched it in a triumphant fist against the lone spotlight.

"Curtain." she breathed and in her heart, the lights dropped as the audience cheered her name.

What happens to a dream deferred? Personally I think it sits, and waits, until finally the time comes that it can take its chance to become a reality.


	7. Night Holds The Key: Trent

**Night Holds the Key : Trent**  
_Never Come to Be_

---------------  
Music, when soft voices die,  
Vibrates in the memory;  
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,  
Live within the sense they quicken.

Trent Lane lost himself in the sensation of his rough fingers stroking the strings of his Fender dreadnaught acoustic, head bowed as the song drifted through the cemetery, the notes rising and falling as they were carried off on the wind. Jesse Moreno sat beside him, strumming rhythm and singing harmony when called for. The song was by a band Trent had seen in New York when visiting his baby sister, Jane, who lived in a tiny studio in downtown Manhattan and drew a comic strip for the Daily News. Trent remembered going into a club for a beer, and there they were on stage, kids-- _college_ kids--ten years younger than him or more, with ten times the talent he ever had as a musician. The singer didn't have much of a voice, to be sure, but he had charisma and stage presence and could shred that axe like a bastard. Trent had sprung five bucks for their CD and gazed down at the cover for a long moment.

When Distance Fails. Cool name.

"When you open up your eyes  
I see the many tears that dried behind your smile..."

The day was overcast, sky a blinding grey that seemed to reflect the grief and emptiness Trent was feeling, the hopeless bereavement that had swallowed each day since that afternoon at the hospital... the day he had lost her.

"Cross my fingers and wait.  
Kiss your lips and taste...  
The good life that will never come to be."

A tear fell, hit Trent's guitar and slid down to drop into the grass at his feet. He seemed not to notice, kept playing though his voice grew rough. The wind gusted unexpectedly and carried his anguish far into the sky where he knew the woman so many had come to bid farewell now watched, those deep brown eyes he had so come to love sparkling behind her glasses like jewels in a window display.

_Never come to be._

Trent stood looking down at the casket, a single flower held in one calloused hand. He bit viciously into his lower lip in a hopeless bid to stay in control and dropped the blossom onto the polished wood. The violet sat atop a mountain of roses, dark and small and mournful. The metaphor was too much for the broken musician and he wrenched his gaze away. Heavy boots crunched forlornly over grass and gravel as Trent left the funeral behind. His part was over and staying would only bring him lower than he could possibly stand. He did not look back.

Days, moments spent in the sun with the woman who very well might have been his soul mate tormented Trent, an unbearable torture with only one remedy. Weeks bled into months as slowly summer lost its warmth and autumn its color. Winter sank its roots into Lawndale and Trent's ruined heart as he slept away the days and rocked through the nights, playing and singing until his fingers bled and his voice gave out, painful and raw. When Distance Fails's CD played constantly, stuck on repeat on track 5 as Trent lay on his bed, wrapped in filthy sheets and trapped in fitful slumber. Bittersweet dreams held him willing captive, his mind filled with visions of auburn hair and rose kissed lips lifted in that sarcastic smirk that filled him with longing.

_...as you begin to sleep and dream,  
I will now whisper in your ear to never leave..._

Daria drove in from Boston to see him. She was different, far removed from the diminutive teen that had secretly longed after Trent for two years in her youth. She stood just a few inches taller, but now wore black slacks and a silk shirt rather than her old outcast gear and her hair was styled into loose curls, though the length was much the same. Daria's glasses were rectangular and slim, but the eyes behind them were so much like _hers_ it hurt Trent to see them.

Daria's gentle, sympathetic tone sharpened when Trent refused to look at her. She quickly went from supportive, almost plaintive, to angry. She yelled at Trent, who lay on his disgusting bed littered with dead roses, many of the petals loose, some crushed to brown-red dust which lingered on his skin and hair, foil chocolate wrappers and pictures of Trent's love lost. Old Valentine hearts were strewn about, some on the bed, most across the floor, plundered of their gaily wrapped treasures and tossed aside like garish corpses. Love letters and greeting cards, most wrinkled or smudged from constant handling, coated his dresser and night table. Lipstick kisses closed every note, some of the ink blurred by tears. Daria, her last nerve spent, swung her hand and bit her lip as the slap connected with Trent's gaunt cheek. He felt a momentary chill as the band of her engagement ring made contact with his stubbly skin. His door slammed as she stormed out, but he did not blame her. She could never understand; those who walk in the sun knew nothing of the pain of those banished from the light. Trent lay his head back against a stained, deflated pillow and closed his eyes.

_never come to be_

He dreamed of the end. Sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair at her bedside as the monitors beeped and blipped and counted down the remaining heartbeats of Amy Barksdale's life, clutching her cold hand and begging whatever higher force there might be to let them have one more day, just one more day in the sun before it set forever.

_just maybe this beautiful dream will come alive  
but all that I can do is sit and watch you die_

He dreamed of her smile, tinged with melancholy as she held his eyes with her own, those deep brown eyes that never lost their shine for a moment, even when the Leukemia left her body a starved ruin and she could no longer find the strength to stand. Her smile wavered as her breath caught, and Trent cursed god then. Cursed the supposed almighty being that had allowed him to find the love of his life, only to drag her away in such a painful manner. Amy held out her other hand for Trent, a lone tear wavering on the verge of release as her fingers trembled and Trent took it. Without a word, he raised that thin, dry hand to his cheek and held it there as he lowered his lips to hers softly, sweetly if for the last time.

_kiss your lips and taste... _

The tear found its release as Amy and Trent whispered their love and the heart monitor sped up for a moment before slowly running down to a single, monotonous drone. Their gaze never broke until the light went out of her eyes and the doctors came in to declare a time of death. The Morgedorffers were in the waiting room, along with Rita Danielson and her daughter. Trent saw none of them; the sun was gone from his sky, the world encircled by an eternal curtain of night.

_the good life that will never come to be_

The moon rose as Trent's eyes drifted open, wet obsidian which drank in the scant light drifting in through shuttered windows. Slowly he sat up, hands passing through long, greasy hair before he ran them over his cheeks. With the moisture collected from his spilled tears, Trent slicked his hair back and pulled it into a loose ponytail. The tail had been Amy's idea, he reflected as he sifted through a pile of clothes in search of relatively clean attire. After a few short minutes he found a long-sleeved black tee and badly ripped jeans, disrobed and stood in the stillness of his room, listening to the long since memorized song drift through the air.

_never come to be_

You can't be a real musician unless you have long hair. That was what she said. Trent's lips pulled into a pained smile and his right hand touched his chest, not quite covering the tattoo over his heart. _Amy_ was etched into his skin in scarlet script, a heart traced around the letters to symbolize how she filled him with all the love he could ever hold. She had had a matching tattoo, his name etched into her wrist with a tiny heart looped through the tail of the 'e'; it had been their version of wedding rings, as neither had felt the need to actually get married to cement their relationship. Their love was enough.

_the days we should've had... I wish I'd just forget_

The lithe musician came out of his reverie and dressed. His movements were slow but sure and soon he was ready to go. The clock at his bedside read nine-eighteen as he checked his guitar case for picks and extra strings, and at nine-twenty two he stepped out into the hall. His eyes looked out on the world, cold and broken as shattered stones in the winter snow. Behind him the song played on, caught in its eternal loop, much like the man with the broken smile who hid in the darkness, forever in fear of being blinded by the sun's painful light.

_i hate this hospital as much as I hate god, I hate this funeral and wish that I'd forgot_

On stage at McGrundy's Pub, Trent wailed his pain out at an oblivious crowd in vain effort to lance the festering lump where his shredded heart once dwelled. He happened, by chance, to look into the audience and was surprised to see Daria smiling sadly up at him from a table at the left of the stage. Without thinking, he smiled back then closed his eyes and lost himself to the music. One day, he might be ready to crawl out of his grief and step once more into the light, but the loss was still too fresh, her face all too clear in his memory. One day he might be free of the guilt of watching his love die, unable to fight the murderous invader ripping her body apart. But that day was still far off in an uncertain future, and in Trent's ruined heart, the night held sway.

_never come to be_

---------------  
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,  
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;  
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,  
Love itself shall slumber on.

Music, When Soft Voices Die by Percy Bysshe Shelly.  
Lyrics from "Your Lullaby" (c) When Distance Fails 2005, used without permission.  
6/22/09


	8. Whispers in the Night: D&J

**Whispers in the Night**: D&J  
_Second Glance_

Daria awoke to a gentle _tap, tap, tap_ coming from the window by her feet. She groaned in frustration, rubbed her face roughly and sat up in bed. She briefly considered grabbing her glasses, then decided she did not care enough.

The tapping came again, and Daria recognized it for what it was: someone tossing pebbles at her window. One of Quinn's legion admirers, once again mistaking _her_ window for her sister's. Daria scooted to the end of the bed, idly wondering what it would be like to have someone be so taken with you, they would stand under your window in the dead of night, tossing pebbles at your window just for the chance to see you for a few moments. Daria had read Romeo & Juliet and Cyrano De Bergerac when she was a kid, watched Say Anything and smiled when John Cusack held up that boom box outside his girl's window. Though she pretended otherwise, Daria was a romantic being, and as much as those stories told a girl how wonderful a moonlight visit from a besotted suitor could be, what they failed to mention was how fucking _frustrating_ it was when said suitor came knocking at the wrong damn window.

Daria realized that she had been sitting with her hand on the window sash for some time and, with another sigh, pushed it up. Just as the window passed shoulder height, Daria heard a throat clear from the side yard below and, as she peeked down at the figure, he began to speak.

"I arise from dreams of thee  
In the first sweet sleep of night,  
When the winds are breathing low,  
And the stars are shining bright."

Daria blinked; she knew that voice, and it was not one she associated with poetry. But then, Quinn accumulated admirers form every sector. She leaned forward a bit farther, eyes straining to focus on the blurry figure below. No specific features came to light, but he recited as one would Shakespeare: hand to the chest, one arm extended to the side as though the verse were an aria lovingly sung to an object of adoration.

"I arise from dreams of thee,  
And a spirit in my feet  
Hath led me who knows how?  
To they chamber window, Sweet!"

Head cocked to the side and arms crossed on the windowsill, Daria found herself smiling. She sat listening, knowing she would have to tell this boy he had come to the wrong window... but it could wait, just a little longer.

"Oh, lift me from the grass!  
I die! I faint! I fail!  
Let they love in kisses rain  
On my lips and eyelids pale.  
My cheek is cold and white, alas!  
My heart beats loud and fast:-  
Press it to thine own again,  
Where it will break at last."

Daria watched, smiling, as the blurry boy stooped and plucked a single rose from atop a box of Godiva chocolates and held it outstretched before him. She shook her head, smiling, and leaned out the window so that her face was easily visible.

"Jeffy," she called softly to the wayward ginger. "Quinn's room is around the corner."

Jeffy looked at Daria, took in her gentle smile, tousled auburn hair shining in the moonlight, and let his arms drop from what he called his 'Romeo pose.' A tiny smile stretched his lips and he shrugged.

"I know," he said simply.

Jeffy reached down and pressed a button on the small boom box at his feet, then once again offered the flower an orange rose, Daria's favorite to his Juliet as her favorite song drifted with the warm night breeze. Smile bright, Daria stood and turned to make her way to the back door as Julie London started to sing.

**End**.

Excerpt from The Indian Serenade by Percy Bysshe Shelley.


	9. Screams in the Night

Screams in the Night  
_Let Me Help You_  
7/16/11

You know, I wanted to believe that I could do it. Maybe it was stupid of me, but I at least wanted to try. I thought I could help her, because we had a lot in common. She just didn't know it.

I tried to talk to her, but she just looked at me and walked away. Just dismissed me as one of Quinn's stupid little friends, and that was really what convinced me that she needed help.

So I started following her.

Just after school, at first. To the pizza place where they spent their afternoons. Through Lawndale to one house or other, depending on what they planned to do that day. Eventually, to the club on Dega Street where they watched that icky band play.

Anywhere she was, I would be there.

I learned as much about her as I could. I cut class to watch her at lunch, and listened to her conversations to try and collect as much of her as I could.

Then, I tried again.

She still wouldn't let me help her.

So I decided not to give her a choice.

She was walking home alone after school and detoured to the park. To read? To think? It didn't matter. I pulled her off the path and held the cloth over her mouth. She didn't inhale, so I went to plan B.

The taser crackled in my hand, and she went limp. I waited a little while to be sure no one heard, then I carefully pulled her into the trees.

It took a long time to get her home. No one was there, a usual, so I pulled her down into the basement and laid her down on the futon. I used some silk scarves from last season to make sure she couldn't run, then crossed the floor and sat in a chair to wait.

Her eyes fluttered open, and I smiled.

"Wha..." She looked around and saw me. Her eyes focused and she tried to sit up. "What the hell?"

"I can help you." I stood and started pulling at my clothes until there was nothing between us but the cool air. I walked over and put a hand on her shoulder. She started to curse and thrash, and I was glad I had removed her boots beforehand. I pulled her jacket aside and smiled. "See? We're the same."

She just stared at me, then growled deep in her throat and lashed out with one of her feet. It hit me right in the knee, and I fell forward on top of her. She spit in my face as I looked up at her.

"I'm nothing like you, you little freak! " And then she started screaming. But there was no one to hear.

Frowning, I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut away her jacket, shirt and bra. The pieces fell to the futon, and I lifted the largest pieces of cloth away to clear a good space.

She still wouldn't see it. Wouldn't see that I could understand her pain, that her pain was mine. That we were _the same_.

So I decided to help her, even if she didn't want it.

I stood and walked to the work bench in the far corner, where I kept my tools. I picked through them while she screamed and cursed behind me, and finally decided that the hand saw was the best choice. I picked it up, then turned back to her. Her screams stopped abruptly.

"I'm going to help you," I assured her, and smiled. "Now, be _very_ still. This part is just a little tricky."

She started screaming again, but another shot from the taser got her calm.

And then, I went to work.

**o.o.o**

It's always so disappointing when things don't go the way you planned.

She was just laying there, staring at the ceiling. I tried to help her, I really did. But she wouldn't listen to what I said.

I wiped at my body, growing sticky and gross with all of the blood and spent effort, and dropped the saw back onto the bench.

She had flinched. And now all of my hard work was ruined.

"I told you it was tricky."

Tears were leaking down onto her cheeks, and she said nothing. Oh, well. There's always next time.

It took a lot less effort this time, and I got her back to the park a lot quicker than I thought I would. I only kept a small piece of her hair; a memento for all the time I had spent working so hard for her.

Then I went home to clean up my workshop. If my mom came home and saw what a mess it was, I would lose my shopping privileges for the rest of the year.

It was going to be a long night.

"_The body of Lawndale High student Jane Lane was found in the High Hills park this morning by early-morning jogger Evan Samuels. Samuels, a classmate and former Track teammate, stumbled over one of the girl's long legs during his usual morning rounds._

_"According to police, the body was almost entirely drained of blood. Small burn marks along her back and side indicate the use of a stun gun or taser. Bruises on her wrists and ankles suggest a struggle, possibly against some sort of bonds. The last half-inch of her right shoulder had been cut away._

_"Police have asked that anyone with any information as to this tragedy come forward._

_In related news, Principal An-_"

Stacy muted the television and frowned, rubbing her right shoulder through her jacket. Jane had had the same asymmetry in her shoulders that so haunted Stacy. The younger girl lived every day with that pain, and had only hoped to spare others the same torment.

"Why wouldn't you let me help you?" Tears came to her eyes, and she moved her hand to finger the new locket resting on her chest. It contained no photo, but a lock of midnight hair still sticky with congealed blood.

The doorbell rang then, and Stacy turned the T.V. off before hopping off of the couch to answer the door. The rest of the Fashion Club was there, faces solemn and clad in the current neutral in a show of mourning.

The meeting that day was typical, reviewing membership candidates and discussing the various imperfections that kept them from taking a place within the illustrious club. Sandi happened to mention a particular girl, Dominique, whose unfortunate liking of over-sized jewelry and uneven shoulders made her unsuitable for membership.

Sandi smirked nastily and turned her narrow hazel eyes on the Secretary.

"Gee, Stacy," she sneered. "It's a good thing Quinn talked you out of buying those chandelier earrings, or we might need to find another secretary."

The pigtailed girl shrugged off the jab, and smiled serenely as she took down the minutes in her careful, neat handwriting.

_Dominique_, she mused, committing the name to memory. _I just know you'll let me help you._

Stacy's smile widened, expression one of profound peace, as Sandi called the meeting to a close.

**End**.


	10. The Night It Ended: Sandi and Stacy

The Night It Ended: Sandi and Stacy  
_Tell Me Why I'm Broken_

5/3/11 - 7/20/11

"The world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel."  
~Worace Walpole

_Remember me when no more day by day _  
_You tell me of our future that you plann'd:_  
_Only remember me; you understand _  
_It will be late to counsel then or pray._  
~from Remember by Christina Rossetti

The pages flipped by at a steady pace, one page every second or so. Each page held three or four photos, each glossy print showing a smiling girl with luminous brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes. Often, she was surrounded by a group of friends: a long-haired redhead with subtle freckles and fair skin; an Asian girl with a tiny, demure smile; a pigtailed girl with a bright smile and large, shining brown eyes. One such photo showed the girls hugging, the sky dark above them and teenagers in summer clothes milling in the background.

A hand came into view and a single manicured finger touched the photo. It trailed over the page and stopped on the brunette. A tear splashed onto the plastic cover a moment later.

Voices came from the left, and a pair of doors pushed open. The photo album was hastily closed and stowed away in a hobo-bag as a nurse pushed a wheelchair through the doors. The nurse chattered cheerfully to the girl in the chair, who kept her eyes in her lap as her hair fell around her face like a veil.

"Sandi!"

Sandi Griffin looked up, eyes dark and unreadable and a thousand miles away. Then she spotted her friend and a smile lit her face, eyes once more rich and bright.

Stacy Rowe fell into step beside the chair, bag hanging heavily on her shoulder, and reached down a hand to take Sandi's as she walked. Sandi squeezed gently, but kept her eyes in her lap.

There were a few tense minutes while Stacy helped Sandi into the car, then they were off to the Griffin home.

As usual, the house was empty when the girls arrived. Sam and Chris, Sandi's little brothers, had camp during the summer and her parents took the extra time to take lunch at Sedimentary Rock. Stacy pushed Sandi into the living room and locked the door behind them.

The house was pleasantly cool with the air conditioning down to medium, and Stacy wheeled Sandi into the kitchen.

"What do you want for lunch today?" She peeked into the fridge, found leftover fried chicken, cold cuts, Caesar salad, a plate of cut vegetables. Sandi made no reply, so Stacy grabbed the salad bowl and cold cuts and brought them over to the counter.

While she worked, Sandi sat at the table gazing forlornly out the window at the sky. She seemed not to notice the passage of time, even as the sun shifted in the sky and the shadows lengthened under the trees. She was brought out of her reverie at the soft click of china against the table and looked over at Stacy. The other girl smiled warmly as she set a sandwich-no crusts and cut into quarters-beside the salad bowl.

"I know you don't like Caesar dressing, so I made sure to get you that low-fat ranch you said you liked last time we went out."

Stacy took a seat across from her and tucked into her lunch. Sandi picked, but one concerned frown from Stacy and she cleaned her plate.

"I thought you had a class today." Stacy froze at the sink where she was rinsing the dishes, then slowly resumed.

"I did, but I talked to my professor and he let me off. I'll just have to hand in a five-page paper to make up for the class assignment we were doing today."

There was a long pause as Stacy loaded their used dishes into the dishwasher, then a sigh whispered across the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Stacy," Sandi muttered, hair hanging around her face as her head dropped forward. "If you didn't have to take care of me-"

"I don't _have_ to do anything, Sandi," Stacy interjected sternly. She moved around the table and knelt beside the chair, folding Sandi's hands into her own. "I want to. You're my friend."

"The only one I have," the girl whispered. Stacy gave the captive hands a final squeeze and stood.

There was no point in arguing, again. Quinn had left for college the previous year, and Tiffany had signed on with a traveling theater company. Though they did not come around but a few times a year, they did call often.

Linda's downstairs office had been converted into a temporary bedroom, and after she took a Vicodin for her back, Sandi asked to be left to herself for a nap. Stacy planted a kiss on her friend's cool forehead, and left to work on her paper.

Sandi laid back on her hospital bed, rested her head on the pillow and dreamed.

**o.o.o**

_She is standing outside of a large house. It is dark, and the pounding music coming from the house is audible even here. Sandi turns up her nose at the drunken teens hooting and grinding on the lawn, but Stacy laughs. They are waiting for their ride to pull around, and when he does Sandi can smell the heavy stench of stale beer on his breath. She hesitates._

Perhaps we should call a cab, _she says to Stacy, who shrugs. She has had a few drinks herself tonight, and Sandi is less than thrilled with the way their escorts and their friends eye the naive girl. Sandi sighs, knowing she will regret it if she allows Stacy to ride alone, and opens the door. She gets in behind the driver, and Stacy slides in beside her._

_At first, all is well. Though he weaves now and then, the driver seems capable enough to get the girls home in one piece. Sandi sends up a prayer of thanks and sighs in relief that the night is almost over._

_Then they stop at Seven Corners._

_It takes some minutes of waiting, but finally their car has right of way. The blinker comes on, Sandi can see it over the driver's shoulder. They have just started to turn, then everything is spinning._

_Sandi opens her eyes, disoriented, and looks around in an attempt to get her bearings. There is blood in the front seat, all but an arm enveloped by twisted metal. Sandi turns to Stacy, only to see the girl leaning against the window. There is blood on her ashen face, and Sandi feels herself panic._

Oh god, oh god, oh god, _she sobs as she unbuckles herself and pushes her unharmed door open. She dashes around the car and pulls the door open. She catches Stacy, pushes her over so that she is laying sideways on the seat and breathes a sigh of relief. Then there is the squealing of tires, the smell of ozone, and the crushing agony as the world explodes around her._

_The last thing she sees is Stacy's bloody, pallid face as her vision begins to fade. Before she closes her eyes, a last thought brings a chuckle bubbling to her lips._

I knew we should've called a cab.

_Then the world dies as the black tide pulls her under_.

**o.o.o**

Sandi awoke sobbing, wrapped in warm arms. The pain coming from the rods in her back was bitter fire, but was nothing to the crushing tightness of her chest as she struggled to draw breath into her lungs.

Stacy was murmuring soothing nonsense as she rocked the hysterical woman, who understood the words and cried all the harder for them.

_Everything is going to be fine._

Sandi was much too old to believe in fairy tales.

**o.o.o**

They were in the side yard. Stacy had set up a lawn chair for herself and made a pitcher of peach iced tea. They sat sipping the refreshing drinks and watching the evening traffic pass as children played on the sidewalks.

Sandi held her glass in both hands, watching the ice cubes bob as they slowly melted into the tea. Her eyes were glazed and far away as they tracked a drop of condensation where it slid down the glass and over her fingers.

"Stacy," she murmured, and Stacy looked around with a small smile.

"Hm?"

The drop of moisture dripped off of Sandi's fingernail and soaked into the dark fabric of her skirt.

"Do you ever think about dying?"

Alarm bells went off in Stacy's head, loud and shrill. She reached down to rest her half-full glass on the ground and turned to face Sandi fully.

"Sandi?" Stacy whispered, eyes large with worry.

Sandi's eyes strayed to the street where a luxury car was just turning into the driveway. Soon Linda and Tom Griffin stepped out and moved around to the walk.

Linda spared not so much as a glance for her daughter as she marched up to the front door, but took a moment to toss a few harsh words over her shoulder before stepping inside.

"Sandi, if you're going to be spending time in public, the least you could do is wear something presentable."

Tom shot a weary glance after his wife as he stooped to press a kiss to his daughter's head.

"Hello, princess." He turned to Stacy, smile sad. "Thank you for coming today, Stacy. You know how hard things have been for us lately."

Stacy's usually soft brown eyes hardened at his words, and her smile tightened into a thin line.

"Yes," she gritted, sitting up in her chair. "How hard it's been for _you_."

Tom dropped his head and retreated into the house. Stacy watched him scuttle off with a sharp, almost predatory expression, then turned back to her friend.

Sandi had given no outward sign that she had noticed her parents' return. Her eyes followed the cars passing on the street, dispassionate and starless.

"I wonder sometimes," Sandi uttered softly, watching the thickening traffic as rush hour approached. "What would've happened if I hadn't got out of the car." Her eyes flashed to Stacy's face, then away again. "If you got hit instead."

"Sandi." Tears were sliding down her face, silent as her anguish.

"I wonder about it, when I can't sleep. What if it was you in this chair?" Sandi glanced down at her unresponsive legs, hidden under the heavy fall of her long skirt. "Would I be taking care of you, like you take care of me now?"

Her head came up again, and turned to find Stacy. Their eyes locked, and for the first time in months there was real heat behind Sandi's hazel eyes. For that moment, she was once more the President of the Fashion Club in all her haughty glory.

"But today, I decided something. I'm glad it was me."

Shock colored the pigtailed girl's expression at these quiet words. She reached out a hand to take Sandi's, but it stopped short just a few inches away at the next words spoken.

"I don't think I would be able to watch you kill yourself."

"What?" Stacy drew backward in horror, then swung her feet over so that she was facing Sandi where she sat in profile. "Sandi, what are you saying?"

Sandi shook her head, slowly. Her expression was hard and unyielding even under the onslaught of Stacy's tears.

"No." Stacy's expression grew fierce and her hands balled into tight fists. "_No_. Sandi, you're getting better. You're not talking about-about _that_. You'll be fine, everything will be-"

"No, Stacy." Sandi turned her head and pinned the other woman with an intense gaze. "Everything will not be okay. I have nothing." Her eyes once again slid to her lap. "Nothing."

A hand came into her line of sight and rested on her arm before gently squeezing.

"You have me," Stacy whispered, and Sandi turned an honest, sweet smile in her direction.

"Except you," she amended. She raised the glass in her hands and took a last sip before dropping it unceremoniously to the grass. She placed her hands on the wheels of her chair and tested them. They did not budge. With a flick of first one index finger, then the other, the brakes were disengaged and Sandi had to grip the wheels to keep from rolling down the slight slope of the lawn and into the street. "But I'm not going to keep taking up your time. You have your own life, Stacy. You have _a_ life. I want you to live it."

"Sandi, no," Stacy sobbed. She took hold of the left armrest of Sandi's chair and held on. "You'll see this through. Everything happens for a reason, you have to believe that!"

"A reason?" Anger flooded Sandi's eyes and their rich color darkened to a muddy brown. "A _reason?_ Okay, Stacy, then tell me! Tell me why this happened!"

Stacy flinched, no longer accustomed to Sandi's yelling, and dropped her gaze to her lap.

"Tell me why I can't dress myself, or take a shower, or go sh-shopping like we used to!" Sandi drew a hitching breath in attempt to get herself under control. She was unsuccessful; her next words came in a strangled whisper laced with sorrow and pain. "Tell me why I'm broken."

Stacy wept silently, unable to speak or even come up with some response that would convince Sandi to stay. So she did not struggle when Sandi gently displaced the hand clamped to the armrest of the wheelchair, or look up when the chair started to move slowly forward.

A few seconds later, the chair stopped and Stacy allowed herself to hope. Sandi was looking back at her, expression at once determined and wistful. All hope died, then.

"I love you," Stacy whispered, her only goodbye, and Sandi smiled.

"I love you, too," she said in a sad voice. "And that's why I have to let you go."

Facing forward once more, Sandi pushed her chair toward the curb, careful not to go too quickly, as Stacy sat with hands clasped behind her. The memory of her last sip of iced tea still clung to her lips, sweet and refreshing as the girl who had made it. Sandi's smile widened as the first tear spilled from her left eye.

The sun was rosy as it kissed the horizon, the moon rising in the sky. Children laughed and played in the neighborhood around them as Stacy watched her best friend wheel herself into the evening traffic.

_I was broken for a long time _  
_But it's over now_  
~I Was Broken by Robert Pattinson

**End**.

Started this one back in May, but then I lost my muse. She came back today, it seems. Lucky me.


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